


He Wastes Cigarettes On the Boardwalk

by The_Lame_Goat



Series: Port City Randos [1]
Category: Superpose (Webcomic)
Genre: AU: Man Over Heaven, Brief moments of panic, Kissing that goes sour, M/M, Nights on the boardwalk, Smoking, vague references to past child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 07:10:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17039132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lame_Goat/pseuds/The_Lame_Goat
Summary: Joseph Vega loses some cigarettes to a stranger, maybe misses an opportunity or two as well.





	He Wastes Cigarettes On the Boardwalk

Joseph Vega has chosen to spend this night alone, though not quite isolated, the boardwalk is hardly the place to go for true peace and serenity but he would never find that anyway, and given enough time the combined sounds of tourist chatter and Port City entertainment congeals into a sort of white noise. Something to fill in the spaces between thoughts, keep some from bubbling to the surface. 

He sits on the counter of a currently abandoned vendor, it will be replaced, repurposed, reowned before most notice its absence; he only knows about it because he's been actively looking for such things since he was little. The paint on the wood is chipping away, and he actually cut his finger on one of the edges earlier that night, the small gash positioned in such a way that any absentminded curl of the digit could cause it to reopen. He had checked it for splinters, rust shards, gave up after squinting in the unstable light, and sucked the blood away like a child. Papercuts and splinters and blood are old friends to him. 

Tonight is a colder night for the summer and he isn't quite prepared for it in terms of clothing but in terms of spirit and experience he's set. The chilly breeze cuts through his light jacket every now and then and carries with it smells of the boardwalk: greasy food, cotton candy, brine, and tonight a different smell, cologne and close, and as he stares ahead someone comes to sit next to him. 

Joseph's eyes weren't closed but he didn't see the stranger coming, must have come up on his peripheral. Perhaps on some other day he would have been aware enough to notice, but tonight he's just close enough to catatonic that he can't even bring himself to care (even though that stranger is close, close). 

The man sniffs the air, asks softly, tenderly, as if he might be intruding over some established boundary. "Do you smoke?" 

Joseph nods, reaches instinctively in his pocket even before the man asks "May I?" 

Joseph finally looks over as the man takes the cigarette and puts it between his lips gingerly, lighting it with so much care that it comes off as clumsy. The way his fingers tremble around the latch of the lighter does not escape Joseph and he quickly buries the nagging urge to just take the lighter and do it for him. Get it over with. 

He does succeed in lighting it and takes a long drag, rolling the flavor on his tongue with a somewhat disgusted expression before blowing out smoke through his nose. 

Joseph takes a cigarette out for himself, lights it with deft, practiced movements, and eyes the man next to him, lips curled in a half-smirk, head tilted in a half-nod. _That's how you do it._ The stranger catches his look and responds with a half-smile of his own, laced with something Joseph can't quite place. 

He's not an ugly man by any means, in fact on another night he might have been beautiful, but tonight the neon lights play harshly off the hard angles of his face, resulting in a half-starved hollowness. Joseph is briefly reminded of the homoerotic pulp novels of his youth, yes this could be the type of man who would exist there, but now twisted by the lens of reality. Some hungry white tourist who can't even smoke right. 

"Don't smoke much, do you?" Joseph asks. The man hasn't choked on the smoke yet but his nose wrinkles with each careful drag, and with that question he takes the cigarette from his lips and looks at it almost reproachfully, the very tip of his tongue poking out as if to let the air cleanse at least part of his palate. His cigs are cheap, but they're not _that_ cheap 

. 

"That obvious, is it?" the man says, the cigarette dangling precariously between his index and middle fingers. 

"Yeah". Joseph blows smoke, watches the cigarette somewhat warily. "Is it peer pressure? Or you just like wasting strangers' cigarettes?" 

The man chuckles a bit, a rich low sound. "Oh, I'm a serial cigarette waster. I can never finish a box. That's why people like you are such a godsend." 

Something in Joseph stirs at the word "godsend" but he buries it quickly. "You go around town just looking for folks to bum a cigarette off of?" 

"Not often, only when traveling." 

" _Tourist_ , huh?" Joseph crams as much bile as he can into the word until its dripping with it. "What a surprise." 

"Not too fond, are you?" 

"Not of the wasteful ones, no." 

"Well then, why don't I give you something in return?" 

Joseph knows what's coming, has read the situation play off hundreds of times with hundreds of similar men, and yet here on some shitty abandoned stand it's his turn. The man must have positioned himself gradually during their conversation because he is half-leaning over him now, long fingers tenderly guiding his chin so they're facing, and meeting their lips together. 

He can taste the smoke on the man's breath, and strands from his hair tickle his cheeks as the other leans more into the kiss, other hand landing softly just above Joseph's knee, squeezing gently. There is a low rumble and Joseph can't tell whether it is him or the stranger, but it brings him to reality, the sort of one populated by hyper-sharp emotions and lights and flavors. Suddenly he feels as if he's choking, and he pulls away, and for one startling moment he's met with fierce resistance, the hand at his knee grips hard and the one at his face tightens, but with a delicate swipe of tongue against his bottom lip, as if to soothe some unseen hurt, it is over. 

Joseph breathes hard through his nose and wipes at his mouth with the back of his sleeve, and only just catches his balance as he slides off the stand. The man is still sitting on the counter, staring at him, but Joseph can't make heads or tails of the expression. 

"Listen—" he begins. 

"I understand", the man says flatly. During the event Joseph must have mussed his hair, for several long pale strands fell in front of his face. 

The two stand there wordlessly for a moment, the man brushing back his hair, before he leaves, the stand creaking with the sudden removal of weight, his figure disappearing into the far off throng of the boardwalk. Joseph, with trembling fingers, fishes out a cigarette. 


End file.
